


all the lights that lead the way

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mesut forgets everything. Except the important things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the lights that lead the way

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [acchikocchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi), who told me to post this. Please note that this is definitely not how concussions/retrograde amnesia works. But for the sake of a story, let's suspend our disbelief.

It's too bright. Not like waking up with the sun in your eyes, more like a dentist's chair and a swoop of vertigo. You reach for something to steady yourself.

A hand grips your elbow.

"—es? Look at me. Can you hear me?"

You blink up at a dark silhouette. Behind him are floodlights ringing the sky. Distant shouting. People in white uniform run toward you. The ground is muddy green.

A stadium, you think, before all the lights go out.

 

* * *

 

 _Post-traumatic retrograde amnesia,_ they say.

 _Transient, unusual, but no other complications,_ they say.

 _Your name is Mesut,_ they say. _You're going to be fine._

It's three days before they discharge you. They give you medication for the headache. A man they call your father takes you to a big, empty house that he says is your home. A dog with a sad face snuffles up to your feet.

"Down, Rocky," your father says. "I'll take care of the calls. Doctor said you'll start remembering soon, so we'll just cancel everything until then."

You don't know what has to be canceled, but you nod.

He waves you off. "Go rest."

Rocky follows you down the hall. The white walls and wood floors are vaguely familiar. You open a door and find a bathroom. Two doors down is a messy bedroom that you think must be yours.

A phone rings. Rocky hops onto the bed, noses around the covers until he unearths the noisy device. You rescue it from his big paws. The caller ID reads _Sami_.

Your father said he would take care of the calls. Rocky pushes his face under your arm and slobbers over your jeans. You ruffle his ears. Eventually the phone stops ringing.

Nothing feels new, but you don't remember specifics either. It's like you just stopped caring.

Sometime later, a chocolate-colored dog peers into the room. Rocky looks up, yawns, and puts his head down on your lap again. The other dog trots over, wedges itself between you and Rocky. There's a name tag on his collar: Balboa.

You pray alone, but both dogs sleep on the bed with you that night. You wonder if you're supposed to push them off.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, your father takes you to the training grounds.

"Helps to have familiar things," he says. "People, faces. Might help you remember faster."

"I remember football," you tell him.

He grunts. "You'd better."

The pitch is well-manicured and smells green with dew. A man wearing a cap is setting out cones in some sort of pattern. By the touchline, a grey-haired gentleman converses with a tall, dark someone and a sudden panic squirms in your gut.

Mr. Grey-Hair spots you and your father. He waves you over.

"Mesut. How are you feeling?"

You look to your father. He sighs. "Doctor said he'll be fine in a couple days," your father tells Mr. Grey-Hair. "Mesut, this is Carlo Ancelotti, _el Míster_."

"Hi," you say awkwardly.

Ancelotti's smile is kind. "We've met before. Why don't you go with Sami, and I'll have a chat with Mustafa here."

You glance at the dark-haired man. Sami. He motions for you to follow him toward the far side of the pitch.

"How's your head?" Sami asks.

"I'm trying to remember. The doctor said—"

"No, I meant," Sami quirks a smile, "you got kicked pretty hard. Does it hurt?"

"Oh." You stuff your hands in your pockets. "No. I'm okay now."

"Good. I was worried, you know." Sami looks like he wants to say something else. But then he purses his lips, smiles again. "The other guys will be here soon."

You look around the pitch, the circle of cones. Ancelotti pacing the touchline, Sami standing next to you. It feels open and crowded all at the same time.

Sami adds, "If you don't want to talk to them, just say so."

You wonder if you're always that obvious, or if the real Mesut would be better at hiding what he's thinking. You take a deep breath. "No. It's fine. I'm not even supposed to train or anything. It's fine."

"Okay," Sami says. "But you tell me if they're bothering you, okay?"

And it's not really, but Sami is asking, so you nod and tell him _yes, okay_.

 

* * *

 

You hang around training, because that's supposed to help. You watch them play and try to remember who everyone is. All the Spanish syllables get jumbled up in your head. It takes you a few days to figure out that _Serhio_ and _Ramos_ and _Gitano_ all mean the same laughing person.

"It hasn't affected his Spanish," Arbeloa comments once in the locker room. "Sure he's not just faking?"

Sami smacks him with a towel as he passes by. "Procedural versus declarative memory. And leave him alone."

"What? When'd you get your medical degree, Khedira?"

"When you got your Batmobile."

A week later, the doctor clears you for physical activity. It's a relief to run again. The ball feels heavy and right on your laces, at your feet. You still can't match every face to a name, but you can pick out the right pass, the right run, and that's what matters.

"You're remembering," Ancelotti says on Monday. It's been three weeks. You tell him yes, more or less. He nods. "Think you'll be ready for the friendly this weekend?"

"If I'm playing well enough," you tell him.

"You're playing well enough," he says.

You train harder. This at least feels right, even when you can't remember what street you live on. Sami drives you home after practices.

"Just like when we first moved here," he says.

"Why'd you stop?"

"Because you never pay for gas."

You like how casually he drops these hints about your life. Ancelotti will sit you down and remind you about tactics; your father systematically drills you on important names and facts. But Sami just…talks. About whatever. It's nice.

"Want to come in?" you ask when he pulls into the driveway.

Sami freezes. He clears his throat, adjusts the rear view mirror. "Thanks, but I'd better not."

He unlocks the door and politely waits for you to leave. You cross your arms. "Why not?"

"Because we don't do that."

"Aren't we friends?"

"It's not like that." Sami taps the steering wheel, stares straight ahead. "You'll remember. You're starting to remember things, right?"

 _Doctors aren't always right,_ you don't say out loud. "Yeah. I guess."

"Good. Then that's what we'll do."

You wait for him to say something, anything else. He doesn't.

You push open the door. "Thanks for the ride."

 

* * *

 

You pray at sunset and before bed. You eat the food your father left in the fridge, ignore the dogs when they whine and scratch at your bedroom door.

The clock ticks toward midnight and you stare at the ceiling, wondering why you remembered football but not the team. You remembered Spanish but not your own father's name. You remember God but not what He wants for you.

You think it's maybe because you never figured it out in the first place. Because otherwise you'd know, the same way you know how to speak and pray and run with a ball at your feet.

 

* * *

 

"And you're sure?" your father asks for the umpteenth time.

"It's coming back," you tell him. "I'm fine now."

Which is not a complete lie. Yesterday you remembered the water bottle prank, to Marcelo's delight. You know everyone's names now. You figured out that it's not weird for Sergio to invite you to lunch. But it was definitely weird when Iker pulled you aside and asked if you and Sami were all right.

These people are your teammates, and you trust that they'll look out for you. Your father doesn't look entirely convinced. But he has some meeting in Madrid, so he can't go with you for the friendly.

"Don't talk to any reporters," your father says. "I told Ancelotti, but you remind him again. Don't talk to anyone outside the team."

There's no time to talk to anyone. You fly out with the team Saturday morning, nap until lunch, attend a light training, and the match is at night. Sergio takes it upon himself to tell you where you're supposed to go; Sami has press duty.

You wait in the tunnel before the match. You can hear the stadium, thousands of voices. Everyone else is still in the locker room.

The first pair of boots clanging down the stairs belongs to Sami. He stops when he sees you.

"Thought you were praying," he says.

"Is that what I usually do?"

"What you used to do." Sami stops on the bottom stair, bends down to retie his shoes. "People can change."

"Can I?"

"Sure."

"But everyone wants me to remember."

"It's not about what we want. It's what the doctor said."

You shrug. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you pray?"

Sami tugs on his laces. "That's personal."

Voices and clattering boots announce the rest of the team. Sergio leads the pack, clapping Sami's shoulder, pulling you into a hug. Iker shoots you a look.

You fall in behind Kaka and try to focus on the match.

 

* * *

 

Benzema scores twice in the first half. Everything feels easy. The game is flowing, the ball sticks to your laces. You dribble past defenders who are so slow they might as well be standing still.

The tackle comes out of nowhere. Legs colliding, a shock, gravity, the world upside down and you're curled in the grass. You clutch your ankle reflexively. It doesn't hurt as much as the shoulder you landed on.

You hear the referee's shrill whistle. Someone kneels down beside you.

"Hey. Hey, look at me. Look at me, Mes. It's okay."

And that's familiar, because that's Sami. You grab the hand he places on your shoulder.

A forest of white socks mill around you. Sami puts himself between you and them, but you can hear Sergio arguing with the referee. _He's going to get booked,_ you think. Someone should stop him. Pepe, maybe.

Sami helps you up. The referee comes to check if you're okay. From the corner of your eye, you can see Ancelotti gesticulating from the touchline. You're going to be subbed off.

The referee holds up a red card. The stadium boos. You head straight for the locker room, sink down on a bench and put your head in your arms. No one told you about Sergio's penchant for yellow cards.

 

* * *

 

"You scared the shit out of me," Sami says.

"How do you think I felt?"

"That's not—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry. But it was like that the first time, you know? They carried you off on a stretcher."

You look down at your feet. "It wasn't my fault."

"I know. I know, Mes, I just."

"Can we do this inside?"

Sami hesitates. You give him a half-hearted glare. He backs away immediately and lets you in.

The room is a lot cleaner than yours. Mostly because the bed is made, and Sami kept his bags in one corner instead of dropping them wherever. You wander over to the window. He has a street view.

"You want some water?"

"No." You turn around to face him. "I want to talk."

He sits down in the desk chair. "About what?"

"I remember why you stopped driving me."

"I told you why."

"You lied."

He stares. But doesn't protest. You take a breath.

"Why'd you lie to me?"

"You were going to remember anyway."

"I might've remembered faster if you'd told me."

He makes a sound like a laugh. "What did you want me to say? Yeah, we don't carpool anymore because remember that time I asked you out, and you said you'd pray for me?"

You do remember, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. "That's not what I meant."

"Well, it's what you said."

"We're friends!" You take a deep breath. "We're supposed to be friends. I didn't want to lose that, and that's all I ever prayed for, because _I didn't know what else to do._ "

"So you, what? You asked God to make me straight?"

You shake your head. It hurts. Not like a concussion, but like all those nights you lay awake staring at the ceiling and wondering why.

"You could have said yes, you know. When I invited you in."

"You didn't even know what you were doing."

"The only things I remembered," you tell him, "were football and God. You said it, right? That's different than the things I forgot. Those things weren't a part of me, not in the same way."

He shrugs, tension in every line of his body. "What's your point?"

"I didn't forget the most important things. I knew what I wanted, maybe better than I did, or do, or—I don't know." The window ledge is cold when you lean against it. "You could have said yes."

"I could have," Sami says. "But that's not what I want."

"Then what do you want?"

He looks you in the eye. "Did I stop being your friend after you turned me down?"

"No."

"There you go. If I can't have everything, then at least I want this."

"So you're okay with this?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm not okay with this."

"Mesut, you can't have it both ways."

You push yourself away from the window. "So I'm choosing."

The angle is awkward, since you're standing. You grip the desk edge with one hand for balance, the other resting on his shoulder.

He doesn't try to push you away. "What do you think you're doing."

"You still want this, don't you?"

"Do you?"

You answer him with a kiss. It's clumsy, with the angle and the chair. He tastes like coffee, faintly sour and dark and strong. It's good. It's so good and you don't even notice him standing, maneuvering, until the back of your knees hit the bed.

He stops then, a hand on your back, steadying. "Am I going to wake up to you freaking out tomorrow?"

It takes a couple seconds for you to remember words. "I don't change my mind. You should know."

"Do I?"

"You had to wait this long, didn't you?"

He looks at you for a minute; you wonder if he's actually trying to read your mind. He shouldn't have to. You'd tell him everything, if you had all the words. But you're trying.

Then he kisses you again.

"Yeah," he says. "Guess I did."


End file.
